"It's me," I said, when she picked up the phone.
"You have what I want?" she asked.
"I'm still working. I have to talk with you—get some more information."
"What information?"
"Not on the phone," I told her. "You know the statue on Queens Boulevard, on the north side, just before the courthouse?"
"Yes," she said.
"Tonight. At six–thirty, okay?"
"Yes," she said again, tonelessly. And hung up.
I went back inside to the restaurant. Mama glided over to my table. "No serve breakfast," she said, smiling. I looked stricken. "But not too early for lunch," she told me. One of the alleged waiters materialized next to me, bowed to Mama. She said something in Cantonese to him. He just nodded.
"Hot–and–sour soup?" I asked.
"You speak Chinese now, Burke? Very good."
I didn't bother to answer her—Mama was only sarcastic when she was annoyed about something.
"You want me do something for you, Burke? Get Max over here?"
"Yeah, Mama. I want Max. But I could find him by myself, right? I came here to give you something."
Her eyes opened slightly, looking a question at me. I put the diamond I took from the pimp on the table between us. Mama picked it up, held it to the light between her fingers.
"Man's stone," she said.
"Your stone," I told her. "A small gift to show my great respect."
A smile lit up her face. "Very nice stone," she said.
I bowed my head, saying the matter was closed. "Tell me about new case," Mama said.
"I'm looking for a picture," I said, and told her what kind of picture and why I was looking.
Mama put her hands in the sugar bowl, tossing a pinch of the white powder on the table top, using her fingers to push it into a long narrow column.
"Everybody do something," she told me, drawing her finger through the bottom of the column, drawing a line. "Some people do more things, okay?" Drawing another line, leaving more than half the column between us. "Gambling, funny money, jewels," she said, each time flicking more sugar off the column. "Guns, stealing" More flicks of her finger—less sugar on the table. "Protection money, killing…" More sugar vanished. "Drugs," she said, and the last of the sugar was gone.
I got it. Everybody has to make a living. Everybody draws a line somewhere. The people who do kiddie porn are over the line no matter where you draw it. "I know," I told her.
"Business is business," said Mama, quoting her favorite psalm. "Everything has rules. Do the same way all the time. Reliable, okay?"
"Yes," I said, waiting.
"Even with war…rules," Mama said. I wasn't so sure—I'd been in one, but I let her go on.
"These people…" Mama shrugged, her face set and hard.
The soup came. Mama dished some out into my bowl. Gave some to herself. She bowed over the plates like she was saying grace.
Mama looked up. "No rules," she said.
"No rules," I agreed.
59
IMMACULATA came in the front door of the restaurant, made her way past the customers to our table.
"Hello, Mama," she said.
Mama smiled at her—a real smile, not the cat's grin she usually showed Max's woman. "You sit down with us, okay? Have some soup?"
Immaculata bowed. "Thank you, Mama. I have been told your soup is the finest of all."
That put the cap on it for Mama. "You help Burke on his case, yes? Very good. Very important case. Sit with me," she said, patting the seat next to her.
Immaculata shot her hips sideways and was next to Mama in a flash. She must have been working with Max—he'd been trying to teach me karate for a long time—I hoped he was having better luck with her. Mama gave her a generous helping of the soup, watching her bow over the food before eating, nodding her head in approval.
"Max coming?" she asked.
"Yes," Immaculata answered.
"Max good man. Fine warrior," Mama opened.
"Yes," said Immaculata, waiting.
"Good man. Make good father, yes?"
Immaculata's eyes were calm, but her golden skin flushed. She looked directly at Mama.
"You know? Even Max doesn't know."
"I know," said Mama, patting Immaculata's arm, her whole face smiling.
Immaculata watched Mama's face, then broke into a smile of her own. Without a word being said, she knew she wasn't a bar girl to Mama anymore.
60
MAX CAME out of the kitchen, bowed to everyone at the table, then slammed into the booth next to me, almost driving me through the wall. He pulled out a tattered copy of the Daily News, spread it on the table, and pointed to the charts of Flower Jewel's race with a thick finger. He spread his hands to ask a question—what did this "dq" crap mean anyway?
I used the sugar bowl and the salt and pepper shakers to show him how it had happened. Max nodded, moving his right hand in the "hit me" gesture blackjack players use when they want another card. We were going to bet on Flower Jewel the next time she raced. It wasn't like I had any choice—I handed Max a hundred, ignoring Mama's broad grin and Immaculata's look of benign interest.
Max made the sign of a galloping horse, checked to see that all eyes were focused on him. Then he pounded his chest over his heart, balled his right hand into a fist, and laid his forearm on the table with the underside up. The veins looked like electrical cords. He touched a vein, touched his heart again. Made the sign of the horse.
I got it. Since the blood of Mongol warriors ran in his veins, he claimed to have a natural kinship with horses. I should listen to him.
Mama nodded in agreement. "Good blood," she said. Immaculata blushed again, but Max was too busy proving he knew more about horses than I did to pay attention.
Mama got to her feet as Immaculata stood to give her room to exit.
She took Immaculata's hand, turned it over to see the underside of her forearm. She tapped the delicate veins there, nodded her head sharply. Smiled. "Good blood here too," Mama said, and kissed Immaculata on the cheek.
Max looked at me, puzzled. I didn't say anything—Mac would tell him when it was time for him to know.
I lit a cigarette as the waiter took away the soup bowls, and started to explain why I needed Immaculata.
61
BY THE TIME I was finished, it was mid–afternoon. Only the clock on the wall gave me a clue—daylight never reached the back booths in Mama's joint.
"You really think you can do it?" I asked her.
"It's not an interrogation, Burke. The little boy has information about what happened to him, but it's not so easy for him to talk about. He feels all sorts of things about the assault…guilt, fear, excitement…"
"Excitement?" I asked her.
"Sure. Children are sexual beings, they respond to sexual stimulation. That's why, if we don't treat a child who has been sexually abused, he's likely to go on looking for the same experience."
"Even if it hurt him?"
"Even so," she said.
"What would make him talk?" I asked her.
"You don't make him talk. He wants to talk about it; he wants to get it outside of him…put down the pain. But first he has to feel safe."
"Like that nobody can hurt him anymore?"
"That's it. Exactly."
"So it's easier if he was assaulted by a stranger, right? So his family can protect him?"
"Yes, it is easier if the assault wasn't by a family member. If someone you trust hurts you, it changes the way you look at the whole world."
"I know," I told her. "If I can get the kid, where would I bring him?"
"Bring him to SAFE, the Safety and Fitness Exchange—where I work. I told you about it, remember? It's the best place for this—lots of other children around, and we know how to act around boys like this one. He'll know nobody can hurt him when he's with us."
"You think he'll come with me?" I asked her.
"Probably—I don't know. It would help
if someone he trusted said it was okay for him to go—promised him he'd be all right. Probably the best way would be for you to bring the child's parent, or anyone he trusted, with you. We work with relatives of abused children all the time."
"You wouldn't want to work with this one," I told her.
Max tapped his chest, folded his arms. The kid would sure as hell be safe with him, he was saying. I tapped my fist against his shoulder to thank him, bowed to Immaculata, and went back through the kitchen to Bobby's Lincoln.
62
I STASHED the Lincoln in my garage. Strega had already seen one car; that was enough. Pansy chomped on the heavy beef bones Mama had given me for her, snarling anytime she felt the slightest resistance. Her life would have been perfect right then if I could have gotten pro wrestling on the tube, but only the cable networks carry it during the day. The hippies downstairs must have cable—their lives wouldn't be complete without MTV. I'd have to get the Mole to make the necessary adjustments.
It was getting near time to leave. There's only two ways to ride the subways in New York: dress up like a carpenter or a plumber—anyone who routinely carries tools around with him—or carry a gun. I didn't handle tools like I knew what I was doing, and if I got dropped holding a piece I was looking at some serious time upstate. I put on a dark suit over a blue chambray shirt with a darker–blue knit tie. A hard–working architect. I pulled my new attaché case from under the couch. Its black fabric sides expand to hold a lot of stuff, but that's not why I wanted it. This attaché case is made of Kevlar—the same stuff cops use for bullet–proof vests. It looks like nylon, but it'll blunt a knife and stop a bullet—it even has a shoulder strap so you can keep your hands free.
I unzipped the case and threw in a pack of graph paper, some pencils, an old blueprint of a sewage plant, and a little calculator. I added a telescoping metal pointer, the kind architects use to point out features on their blueprints; it works just as well for keeping people from getting close enough to stab you. Then I hunted around until I found the clear plastic T–square the Mole made for me. It looks like the real thing, but if you wishbone the two ends in your hands and snap hard, you end up with a razor–edged knife. Perfect for stabbing and not illegal to carry. The CIA uses these knives to beat airport security machines, but their best feature is the way they break off inside a body—you can put a hell of an edge on plastic, but it stays very brittle.
I caught the E Train at Chambers Street, under the World Trade Center. That was the end of the line—the return would take me right out to my meeting with Strega without changing trains. And I got a seat.
The first thing I did was open my briefcase and take out my blueprints and T–square. I made a desk of the briefcase in my lap and sat there watching. During rush hour, the trains belong to the citizens. By the time we got into midtown, the car was packed with people. An Oriental man, his dark suit shiny from too many cleanings, face buried in a book on computers, shut out the train noises and concentrated. A dress–for–success black woman was reading some kind of leather–bound report—all I could read on the cover was "Proposal" stamped in gold letters. A pair of middle–aged women sat facing each other, arguing over whose boss was the biggest asshole.
The E Train has modern cars—blue–and–orange plastic seats set perpendicular to each other instead of lined up against the side like the older versionssubway maps set behind thick clear–plastic sheetsstainless–steel outer skins. Even the air conditioning works sometimes. By the time the train hit the long tunnel connecting Manhattan and Queens the car looked like a forest of newspapers and briefcases—gothic romances and crossword puzzles covered faces. A transit cop got on at Queens Plaza, a young guy with a mustache, carrying fifty pounds of equipment on his belt. His eyes swept the car for a second; then he started writing something in his memo book. The car was thick with people, but no skells—nobody smoking dope, no portable radio blasting. Working people going home from work. I felt like a tourist.
Roosevelt Avenue was the next stop on the express. The transit cop got off—Roosevelt Avenue was the Queens version of Times Square–the only thing free out on the streets was trouble. Next came Continental Avenue, where most of the yuppies made their exit. The train goes all the way out to Jamaica; by the time it got to the end of the line there wouldn't be too many white faces left.
I got off at Union Turnpike, stuffing the T–square back into my briefcase, checking my watch. I still had almost fifteen minutes to wait for Strega.
63
THE SUN was dropping into the west as I made my way across Queens Boulevard to the statue. The courthouse was to my right, a squat, dirty piece of undistinguished architecture that hadn't been put up by the lowest bidder—not in Queens County. Looming behind it, the House of Detention cast a shadow of its own, six stories of cross–hatched steel bars, cannon fodder for the processing system citizens call Justice. The guys inside—the ones who can't make bail—call it "just us." Wolfe's office was somewhere in the courthouse complex.
I found a seat at the base of the statue—some Greek god covered with tribute from the passing pigeons. I lit another smoke, watching my hands holding the wooden match. Citizens passed me without a glance—not minding their own business because it was the right thing to do, just in a hurry to get home to whatever treasures their VCRs had preserved for them. The statue was right behind a bus stop, just before the boulevard turned right into Union Turnpike. The human traffic was so thick I couldn't see the street, but I wasn't worried about missing Strega.
I was into my third cigarette when I felt the change in the air—like a cold wind without the breeze. A car horn was blasting its way through the noise of the traffic—sharper and more demanding than the others. A fog–colored BMW was standing right in the middle of the bus stop, leaning on its horn and flashing its lights.
I walked over to the passenger door. The window glass was too dark to see through. The door wasn't locked. I pulled it open and climbed inside. She had the BMW roaring into the traffic stream while I was still closing my door, the little car lurching as she forced it into second gear. We shot across to the left lane, horns protesting in our wake.
"You were late," she snapped, staring straight ahead.
"I was where I said I'd be," I told her, fumbling for my seat belt.
"Next time wait at the curb," she said. Telling the cleaning woman she missed a spot.
She was wearing a bottle–green silk dress, with a black mink jacket over her shoulders, leaving her bare arms free. A thin black chain was around her waist, one end dangling past the seat—it looked like wrought iron. Her face was set and hard behind the makeup mask.
I leaned back in my seat. Strega's skirt was hiked to mid–thigh. Her stockings were dark with some kind of pattern woven into them. Spike heels the same color as the dress. She wasn't wearing her seat belt.
'Where are you going?" I wanted to know.
"My house. You got a problem with that?"
"Only if it isn't empty," I said.
"I'm alone," said Strega. Maybe she was talking about the house.
She wrestled the BMW through the streets to her house, fighting the wheel, riding the clutch unmercifully. The car stalled on Austin Street when she didn't give it enough gas pulling away from the light. "Goddamned fucking clutch!" she muttered, snapping the ignition key to get it started again. She was a lousy driver.
"Why don't you get a car with an automatic transmission?"
"My legs look so good when I change gears," she replied. "Don't they?"
I didn't say anything.
"Look at my legs!" she snarled at me. "Aren't they flashy?"
"I wouldn't get a car to go with my looks," I said, mildly.
"Neither would I—if I looked like you," she said, softening it only slightly with a smile. "And you didn't answer my question."
"What question?"
"Don't my legs look good?"
"That isn't a question," I told her. And this time I got a better smile.<
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64
SHE PULLED the BMW around to the back of her house and hit the button on a box she had clipped to the sun visor to open the garage. I followed her up the stairs to the living room, watching her hips switch under the green dress—it looked like a slip in the soft light. She carried the black mink like a dishrag in one hand, tossing it in the general direction of the white couch as she went by.
Strega passed through the living room to another flight of stairs, and climbed toward a light at the top, not saying a word. The bedroom was huge, big enough for three rooms. The walls were a dusky–rose color, the wall–to–wall carpet a dark red. A Hollywood bed, the kind with a canopy over the top, was in the precise middle of the room, standing on a platform a few inches off the carpet. It was all in pink—pink gauze draped from the canopy almost to the floor. The spread was covered with giant stuffed animals—a panda, two teddy bears, a basset hound. A Raggedy Ann doll was propped against the pillows, its sociopath's eyes watching me. A bathroom door stood open to my right—pink shag carpet on the floor, a clear lucite tub dominating the room. A professional makeup mirror was against one wall, a string of tiny little bulbs all around its border. A walk–in closet had mirrored doors. It was half yuppie dreamscene, half little girl's room. I couldn't imagine another person sleeping there with her.
"His bedroom is on the other side of the house," she said, reading my mind. "This is just for me."
"Your husband works late hours?" I asked.
"My husband does what I tell him. I give him what he wants—he does what I want. You understand?"
"No," I told her.
"You wouldn't," she said. Case closed.
I patted my pockets, telling her I wanted to smoke. I couldn't see an ashtray anywhere.
"I don't smoke cigarettes in here," she said.
"So let's go somewhere else."
Strega looked at me like a carpenter checking if there was enough room for a bookcase.
"You don't like my room?"
Strega Page 20
